The Winner
by Origami Moon
Summary: All was not well.


Er. This kind of just, happened. Moral lesson is, never leave me in a place without internet, or books. Terrible things happen.

**Disclaimer: **I think it's pretty obvious since I'm here writing _fan_fiction, but in case clarification is needed, no. I don't own Harry Potter.

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><p>There was pain, and there were tears in every face, he remembered, after the final battle.<p>

Everyone had lost someone, many someones. Some had lost themselves, too, to grief and agony and the all too appealing option of drowning in it.

And yet they had won, hadn't they?

Voldemort was dead.

Muggleborns and muggles wouldn't be in danger anymore, and Hermione could undo the memory charm on her parents. And maybe they could create a world where she wouldn't be a mudblood, or Ron a blood traitor for being with her. Maybe they could make something good out of this painful mess.

They had to. Otherwise there would be no point in their victory. Otherwise Harry had killed a man for nothing.

A very immoral man, admittedly, who'd done his damndest to ensure he wasn't a man anymore. But remained one nonetheless, much as he'd loathe to admit it, died like every other man nonetheless.

Someone who'd had the cruelty of the world shoved in his face from the first moment of life, someone who'd found solace in Hogwarts_(It's You-Know-Who we're talking about, right? Not you?)_ and who'd also wished to change the world, no matter how twisted his vision had been.

Someone he pitied deeply. Voldemort would have hated his pity, he knew. He couldn't muster enough respect for the man to care.

_(Could you possibly be feeling sorry for Lord Voldemort?)_

No. Possibly. Probably. Yes.

When he was twelve, he'd fiercely denied the similarities between himself and Tom Riddle, terrified of turning out like the other. Harry knew he wouldn't, now, and the similarities were more clear than ever.

_(There are strange likenesses between us, after all. Even you must have noticed.) _

He sympathized with Tom Riddle.

He pitied Lord Voldemort.

And it was why he knew that he could never, that he would never, turn out like him. Because he wouldn't allow all this pain, all these tears, all the deaths- _Riddle's included_- to be for nothing.

He was Harry Potter.

_(The boy who has survived by accident, and because Dumbledore was pulling the strings-)_

He'd had the greatest Dark Lord of all times after him since age one, and he'd won. He was the Dark Lord's equal. He was the winner. And he'd be damned if he gave up now.

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><p>There was hope, and there were smiles in everyone's faces.<p>

They were all fighting still, with him. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, Luna- _friendsfriendsfriendsfamily_- everyone. And the results were starting to show.

Purebloods hesitantly began to acknowledge others of lesser blood as human beings, not an entirely different species that existed only to be sneered at. The four Hogwarts Houses began to regard each other with a maybe sort of grudging respect. Creatures and beings were a far cry from being considered equal to wizards, but there was progress.

Harry was happy.

Maybe things would never be fully well, he thought, but they were getting better than they used to be. Maybe the point wasn't in reaching perfection, but in always fighting so they would always continue to improve.

And yet the dreams remained, perhaps to remind him exactly what he was fighting for- as if he would _ever_ forget. He wanted to call them nightmares, but couldn't.

He was there in his head every night, the eleven year old boy he'd seen in the pensieve, and then a helpless creature with red, burning eyes. But it was always cold in his dreams.

_(You can't help.)_

He woke shivering, and snuggled closer to Ginny- always warm, always comforting just by being there. The girl made an incoherent sound, somewhat between yawn and whine, twisting around to face him, and kissed his cheek.

"Tom, again?" she murmured.

"Yes," Harry admitted, and he knew he didn't have to make an excuse or say anything else.

"I dream of him too," she confessed quietly. "I dream of being the frigthened, insecure eleven year old me again. So far away from you, and from who I want to be. Then there's Tom, in all his cruel charm, listening to me. I'm not insignificant to him- or so I think at first, at least. I always think so at first."

She didn't need to make excuses, either. Perhaps he should be feeling jealous or even horrified that Ginny missed his dead enemy, but he understood. In a way, he did, too.

"Perhaps you weren't," he said. "And you weren't to me, either. It just took me a ridiculous amount of time to realize it."

"Oh, I know." She sounded immensely pleased with the fact, and it made Harry's lips curl into a smile. "Just like you know you couldn't have saved him. But we'll never stop dreaming of him, I think."

Maybe he couldn't have. It didn't make it any better that he'd never even thought to try until it was too late.

He'd never asked to be the chosen one, he'd never asked for Voldemort to target him. He'd never asked to have to be the one to stop him. But he always knew he was going to. But it had always been his goal.

(For many months now, my new target has been you.)

Much like he had been Riddle's. Voldemort's, too.

And though things were not fully well, never would be, he had a new goal now.

His goal was every child like Harry Potter and Tom Riddle. He could still save _them. _Make it so there wouldn't be more Dark Lord's or Boys-Who-Lived, and they could live happily with each other and their Ginnys.

He was the winner, not because he'd already won a fight, but because he would always continue fighting.

"No," he agreed. "We won't."


End file.
